


Interested Parties

by Afalstein



Series: Recruitment Drive [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Between Seasons/Series, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Gen, Pre-Season/Series 02, Recruitment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3491558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afalstein/pseuds/Afalstein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on the run from Decima, Root is brought by the Machine to a concert hall in Portland. She's astonished by the cellist playing onstage, but it turns out there's someone else in the concert hall that the Machine wants her to contact...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Interested Parties

The slim brunette frowned as she stepped into the flowing music of the concert hall.  “You know I’ve never doubted you before.”  She murmured, seemingly to no one, as she glanced around the crowded ampitheater.  “But I’m starting to worry.  This trip to Oregon isn’t out of some sort of nostalgia, is it?  Because if you’re starting to glitch, we could...”

Her voice died as she saw the stage.  There were four musicians, two with violins, one with a  viola, but she had eyes only for the slim brunette playing the cello.

Root’s mouth twisted as she gazed at the woman.  “Well.  Imagine that.  I guess it’s true what they say about everyone having a double.”  Her eyes turned up to the vaulted ceiling with an impish smile.  “You didn’t just bring me out here to see that, though, did you?”

She paused, seemingly listening, then abruptly turned around and strode confidently toward the sound box.  “I understand.”  Without pausing, she pushed open the door marked “Employee’s Only” and entered the closed control room.

The sound booth was strangely empty, and contained only a single man in a suit, hunched over the sound board, his eyes gazing rapturously at the quartet—or more properly the cellist—playing on stage.  There was a look of deep longing and inexpressible sadness on his face.

She entered soundlessly, but even so he looked up.  Eyes widening, he rose to his feet.  “Audrey?”  He swallowed.  “I can explain, I...”

“Sorry, but no.”  Root smiled.  “Though...”  Her eyes drifted to the cellist outside, “...I understand the confusion.  I couldn’t believe it at first either.”

The man looked from her, to the cellist, and then back to her.  He passed a hand over his face.  “You’re... really not supposed to be back here...”

“Neither are you, Phil Coulson.”  Root smiled.  “In fact, you’re not even supposed to be in Oregon, and if your people knew that this is where you’re taking your first ‘vacation’ in months, they’d be giving you a stern talking-to.  Please don’t fire.”  She added the last in a light tone, as Coulson’s hand crept closer to his hip.  “I don’t think you want to interrupt the performance.”

An uncertain smile crossed Coulson’s face.  “I’m sorry, I don’t think I know you...”

“No.”  Root shook her head.  “Your intelligence networks are down, you don’t have government feeds anymore, you don’t know who anyone is anymore.  That’s why you haven’t taken a vacation in months, isn’t it?”  She smiled.  “You’re an intelligence agency without any personnel or surveillence network, which puts you severely behind the rest of the world right now, and that’s not a good position to be in when you’re rebuilding a giant.”

“Okay, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else...”

“Phil Coulson, son of Bob and Agnes Coulson, age 37, formerly of SHIELD, Level 8.”  Root answered, cutting him off.  She smiled at the expression on Coulson’s face.  “Oh, I don’t actually know you, ‘Agent’ Coulson.  But my friend does.  She knows who you are, what you’ve done, what kind of egg salad you like, and why you paid so much to sit in the sound booth when you could just as easily be sitting in the front row.”  A smirk.  “Or backstage.”

Sometime in the exchange, Coulson’s gun had come out.  “Your friend wouldn’t happen to be some kind of psychic, would she?  Cause I might have some bad news for you.”

Root stepped closer, ignoring the pistol.  “I know you don’t believe in psychics, but you believe in gods, don’t you, Agent Coulson?”  She tilted her head.  “Because that’s what my friend is.  A god.”

“Yeah, met a couple of those.”  Coulson did not look convinced.  “It gets old.  So what does your god-friend want?”

“It’s not what she wants.”  Root’s smile was distinctly gleeful.  “It’s what she can provide”

            “And what’s that?”

            “Information.”

 

            “Information.”

 


	2. Paranoid Parties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finch is a very private person. He's not just going to pick up the first offer thrown at him.

Finch had actually settled into his new life as an insurance analyst fairly well.  It was not particularly luxurious, but Finch had never been concerned with luxury, and he could always “invest” in one of the various dummy corporations hiding his money if he wanted a new cash flow.  He still had more than enough to support Jen at school, and keep Grace safely in Italy, so as far as he was concerned things were stable. His work didn’t involve much publicity, which kept him off Decima’s radar, and he’d written a program to handle most of his cases, leaving him free to continue with plenty of other extracurricular activities.

            Mostly these were legal and innocuous—maintaining the operation of the hotel he no longer owned, for instance.  For whatever reason, the Machine had stopped relaying him numbers—perhaps Samaritan was as good as they said it was, or perhaps the Machine just didn’t want him exposed.  Without numbers, there was no need to engage in any dangerous or foolhardy activity, so Finch refrained from rocking the boat.  True, a time would almost certainly come when the boat would need to be rocked—hard—and to that end Finch was quietly rebuilding his information network and working on a form of super-virus.  But those were as dangerous as his hobbies got.

            So when he came back from walking Bear and found a suit-clad man and a young lady in his living room, he was understandably unsettled.

            “Harold Finch, right?”  The man, a balding middle-aged fatherly sort, stood to his feet and offered his hand. “Phil Coulson.”

            Harold didn’t take it.  “I’m... sorry, I think you’re in the wrong house.”

            “Oh, come now Harold,” said a voice he knew too well, as a smirking brunette materialized out of the shadows.  “You of all people should know, ‘She’ never makes mistakes.”

            So that was why Bear was just sitting there wagging his tail.  Finch shot the dog and accusatory look and turned to the man.  “Mr. Coulson, I’m not sure what sort of delusions Miss Groves here has impressed on you...”

            “Groves?  Your name is Groves?”  Coulson glanced at Root, who rolled her eyes.

            “...but my name is Sparrow, Harold Sparrow, and this is my house.”  Harold gave his most threatening stare over the rims of his glasses.  “Now if you leave immediately I’ll be willing to consider that you were misled by Miss Groves here, but if you remain I’m afraid I’ll have to call the police and charge you with breaking and entering.”

            Coulson just smiled.  “Mr. Finch, do you know we have something in common?  We’re both fugitives from the government.  And we have something else in common.”  He stepped forward.  “We’re both dead.”

            Finch gave a small shake of his head.  “....I.... can’t speak for you, Mr. Coulson, but I feel quite well.”

            “Harold, this is only going to drag things on.”  Root rolled her eyes.  Something about the motion struck Harold as odd, but he shelved the question for later.

            “Actually, you have something in common with my friend here too.”  Coulson nodded toward the young woman, who so far had not spoken.  “We know absolutely nothing about you.”

            The young woman smiled.  “At least, about the Harold Finch identity.  Harold Sparrow has all sorts of digital records and tracks, very carefully laid, going back for years and years.  It’s good, but it’s fairly obviously fake if you know how to look for it.  Finch, though...”  She shrugged.  “...nothing.  Really impressive.”

            “I imagine you can’t find anything because nothing exists.”  Harold answered.  “I’ve certainly never heard of a Harold Finch, and while I’m surprised to learn there’s NO such person, the most logical explanation for not finding anything is that there’s nothing to find.”

            “Wow.  Persistent, aren’t you?”  Coulson looked to Root.

Root smiled.  “The first time I kidnapped him, it took him a day and a half for him to admit he knew what I was talking about.”

“The first time you...” Coulson shook his head.   “Maybe bringing you along wasn’t the best call.  Look, maybe this will clear things up.”  His hand disappeared into his coat, and then emerged with a badge.  An eagle, inscribed in a circle.

            Finch’s face very carefully revealed nothing.  “That looks familiar...”  He said, squinting at the metal.  “Wait.  I remember.”  His eyes widened in alarm.  “They were talking about you on the news.  You’re nazis, right?” 

Coulson winced.  “Ah, no.  That’s Hydra.  We’re SHIELD”

“Yes....”  Finch nodded rapidly, backing up.  “I remember now.  SHIELD was the nazi’s cover organization!”

“No, that’s not... well, it is, but it doesn’t.... I mean...”  Coulson sighed.  “Mr. Finch.”  He said, pocketing his badge.  “Have you ever given everything—literally everything—to a cause you believed was just, only to find out that it wasn’t what you thought it was?”

Finch stilled.

“Of course you do,” nodded Coulson.  “It’s happened with your Machine, and now it’s happening to your friend’s machine.”

“What?”  That _did_ take Finch by surprise.  What did Arthur have to do with any of this?

Coulson pulled a file of papers and tossed them on to the table.  “You know all about Decima and Samaritan.”  He responded.  “Now that SHIELD’s been dismantled, they and Stark Enterprises are the main providers of global security.  Your friend has already brought us up to speed on what she knows.  The problem is... we think there’s something else going on.”

Harold knew he shouldn’t.  He knew it was an admission of knowledge.  But slowly, he limped forward and picked up the folder, flipping through it.

“The thing is, Samaritan’s a crazy-smart program.”  The young woman spoke up.  “Like, whole worlds ahead of what it should be.  Claypool made an AI, sure, but even from that it’s a big leap to being able to sort and predict data.  Root here...” The girl nodded at the brunette, who smiled, “...fed me the specs on the original Samaritan, and it’s good, but it’s not the same platform they’re using now.”

            Finch was scanning through the printouts, eyes flicking over them rapidly.  Of course, he should have thought of that.  Getting the Machine to think like a human had only been a preliminary step.  A big step, true, but merely a point on the way toward teaching his program to collect, interpret and predict data based on all of that.  How had Arthur’s two small hard drives made the necessary quantum leap to become a massive, nation-sprawling, surveillance system outpacing his own?

            “What are you saying?”  He forced himself to ask.

            “We think Decima may have picked up another piece of software and upgraded Claypool’s Samaritan with it.”  Coulson came back in.  “Something SHIELD lost track of recently.  An advanced algorithm, meant to predict and anticipate threats.”

            “We don’t... actually know what the original algorithm looked like, so honestly we’re just taking shots in the dark here.”  The young woman put in.  “They’d have had to modify it pretty strongly to make it fit with Samaritan, so it’s probably not anything like it used to be.  But in any case, it’s pretty freaking nasty.”

            “And it’s giving commands to Decima.”  Coulson added.  “Commands they won’t question.”

            “Please explain to me how you’re different.”  Harold snapped, lifting his eyes from the file.  The contents had assured him that these people knew what they were talking about, and would not be easily dissuaded.  “You say you’re using my Machine, but that’s a closed system.  It can’t be controlled.”

            “As if I would let them.”  Root rolled her eyes again, and again Finch thought there was something odd about it.

            “...Yes, and I have to say, it’s an odd system you’ve set up.”  Coulson admitted, glancing from him to her.  “Never seen anything like it in all my years of intelligence work...”

            “I think it’s pretty freakin’ cool, personally.”  The young woman interjected, her eyes shining.  “Protecting people without violating all their personal info?  It’s like the best of both worlds.”

            “It’s more like having a very tempermental informant who only occasionally mutters cryptic lines of intel.”  Coulson answered, flashing her an annoyed look.  “Not very helpful if you want to locate a criminal.  But...”  His gaze tempered a little.  “From what Miss Groves tells me of the... concept behind your work...”  He sighed.

            Finch studied the man, curious.

            “You probably wondered why I even bothered to show you the SHIELD.”  He said, offhandedly.  “I mean, most people, like you, assume it means ‘Nazis’, now, so it’s not like I’m getting any goodwill from showing the eagle.  But...”  Another, longer sigh.  “It’s because SHIELD used to stand for something.”

            “Here he goes again.”  Another eye roll from Root.

            “SHIELD used to be about protection.”  Coulson said, leaning forward in his seat, staring at his hands.  “About stopping threats before they even happened.  Somewhere along the way we lost sight of how best to do that, and we invited traitors into our ranks and... and everything went wrong.  We’re trying to re-discover it now, to rebuild the SHIELD we used to be.”  He looked up, staring Finch in the eyes.  “And your Machine?  Giving us threats, giving us numbers, so we can focus on people, not problems?  I can’t think of a more fitting system for SHIELD to work with.”

            “Not ‘use’”  Root put in, with another eye roll.

            “...Miss Groves...”  Harold started.  That time he had seen it.

            “Oh...”  Root tilted her head on one side.  “...you noticed.”

            Harold said nothing, but limped up to her and peered penetratingly at the hacker’s left eyeball.  “How... this is remarkable workmanship.”  He marveled.

            “You are good.”  Coulson looked genuinely impressed.  “That’s version 3.0, virtually undistinguishable from a real eye.”

            “How did you make this?”  Harold asked, trying desperately not to prod the cybernetic organ.

            Coulson shrugged.  “Honestly?  I didn’t.  Nobody on my team has the first idea how those things are made, we just pulled out an old one we confiscated off a Centipede super-soldier for your lady-friend here.”

            “I always said I was the Machine’s eyes and ears.”  Root stepped back and gave him an even wider smile.  “Now that’s more true than ever.”

            Finch stared at her for a moment.  “You do realize that, as a surveillence system, the Machine already has a thousand eyes, not to mention a thousand ears.”

            “Well, mouthpiece then.”  Root rolled her eyes.  “Or mobile platform.  I can go anywhere that she can’t see.  She can relay information directly into my head, highlight exactly what needs to be done.”  Root gave a little laugh.  “Oh, Harold, you have no idea how wonderful it is!  To see through the eyes of a god!”

            “Just... so we’re clear.”  Coulson held up his hands.  “The eye thing... that’s not mandatory or standard issue or anything.  It was her idea.”

            “She insisted,” agreed the young woman.  “Kiiiiinda freak-y.  Though... y’know, we probably have stuff to do something about that limp of yours.”

            “I can imagine.”  Harold murmured, his eyes blinking rapidly in thought.  Turning to face them, he continued.  “None of this explains what you want me for.”

            “Well, we could use more tech-heads around the base.”  The young woman shrugged.

            Finch gave a thin smile.  “Miss Groves has doubtless told you this already, but I take my privacy seriously.”  He answered.  “I’ve had poor experiences with security organizations like yours; I’d prefer not to get involved.”

            “I’m disappointed.  But not surprised.”   Coulson admitted.  “There’s an alternative, though... we’re not exactly asking you to work _for_ us.  There’s also a chance you could simply work _with_ us.”

            Finch cocked his head questioningly.

            “As a consultant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's confused, I wrote this before season 4 aired, before we found out Finch was pretending to be a professor. I did come up with a story explanation later, though. "Jen" by the way, is a number from a prior episode, a Russian immigrant girl practicing at being a spy, who touched Shaw's heart and was adopted by Finch. Of course they never mentioned her again.


	3. Uninvolved Parties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw is surprised by two strangers while checking on Jen at school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: Jen is the Russian orphan who Root saved from the drug dealers, the one who wanted to be a spy. She was also the first to really break through Shaw's shell.

Shaw knew, tactically speaking, that it was a mistake to keep going to see Jen at school.  Finch had even broken cover to warn her that it was a mistake, that it could put bother her and the little girl in danger.  But damn it, how else was she supposed to make sure that Decima hadn’t kidnapped or killed the kid?  Jen was the ultimate weak spot, a fatal hole that would be easy for Decima to exploit

            So that’s why she was sitting in a coffeehouse across the street from Jen’s school, pretending to sip a latte while she watched the kids walk around outside.  She supposed she should get back to her “job,” but it was hard to feel motivated about medical accounting.  Privately, she felt sure Root had saddled her with the job as some sort of twisted joke.

            Shaw sat up a little straighter as a tiny blonde-haired girl ran onto grass.  Jen looked well enough.  Hopefully the girl wasn’t bored to death, Finch picked her up for holidays, but Shaw would trust Mr. Glasses-and-Limp to know a good time if it hit him in the face.

            Not that Shaw could pretend to be much better.  She’d never really understood the point of holidays.

            Shaw’s eyes suddenly narrowed.  A young woman—bronzed skin and honey-blonde hair—had just walked up to Jen and put her arm around her.  Jen looked up and said something, and the woman laughed.  They started to walk off together toward the gates.

            Shaw got up from her table.  She pushed open the coffeehouse doors and strode toward the school.  In her coat pocket, her hand lovingly fingered her Glock pistol.  The woman and Jen were already out of sight, but they couldn’t be far...

         _Click._

            Shaw rolled her eyes in resignation as a cold voice spoke up behind her.  “Finally.”  It grunted.  There was just a faintly asian accent to the words.  “Take that hand out of your pocket, please.  Let’s try to do this without a gunfight next to the girl’s boarding school.”

            Shaw removed her hand.  Someone reached around her and pulled the pistol from her coat.  “Now.”  The voice continued.  “My friend is waiting with Jen at a cafe round the corner.  We’re going to meet up with them, and then we’re going to talk, and then you and the girl can leave.”

            “I’m supposed to just trust you on that?”  Shaw rolled her eyes

            “No, that’s what the gun pressed up against your back is for.”  The voice had a touch of humor to her voice.  “After we talk, then we can see about trust.”

 

* * *

 

            As her captor had said, Jen and her young companion were waiting around the corner at a cafe, nursing milkshakes.

            “Shaw!”  Jen leapt up from the table and came running toward them, seemingly oblivious to the asian woman holding a gun on her friend.  “You came!  I knew it would be soon.  You always come to watch near the end of the month.”

            Shaw patted the little girl on the back.  “Hey kiddo.  Who are your friends?”

            “SHIELD.”  Jen said, fixing her with an intelligent eye.  “Skye tried to say she was some sort of social worker, and she had all the right papers, but the questions were all wrong.  Plus we never did anything except go out to eat ice cream.”

            “So she stole my wallet and found the SHIELD badge inside.”  The young woman smiled ruefully. 

            “You’re not even supposed to be carrying that anymore.”  The asian woman grumbled.

            “Nazis.  Great.”  Shaw muttered, as Jen led her back to the table.

            “Not sure if you noticed, but the lady behind you, May, is Asian.”  Skye pointed out as they sat down..  “And whoever my parents were, I’m pretty sure they weren’t Aryans.  We’re not Nazis.”

            “You’re thinking of Hydra.  And they just would have kidnapped Jen here and sent you an ear or something.”  May said, sitting down across from her.  Shaw felt privately sure that that gun was still trained on her under the table.

            Skye gave her companion a disturbed look.  “Uh, May?  10-yr-old and potential ally at the table here.  Try not to creep them out.”

            “Why would you send an ear?”  Jen asked.  “An ear could belong to anyone.  Wouldn’t a finger be more effective?”

            “Finger’s too much at once.”  Shaw admonished her, shaking her head.  “It’s permanent disfigurement and disability.   You send an ear, then a finger if they don’t immediately reply.”

            “O-kay.  Never mind.  Lone civilian at the table.  Try not to creep ME out.”  Skye sighed. 

            “Anyway, they didn’t do any of that.”  Jen said, settling back with her milkshake.  “I figured they were using me as bait for either you or Harold.” 

            “And you never thought to do anything about that?”  Shaw eyed the precocious youngster.

            “I sent Harold a warning.  He came by the next day and told me they were okay.”  Jen answered, looking at her.

            “You’re sure it was Harold.”  Shaw questioned.

            “Positive.  He used the passwords and everything.”

            “We have an understanding with your old employer.”  May noted the look in Shaw’s eyes.  “Not your old old employer.  Just your most recent one.  He explained the... work you used to do for him.  Not a lot of that recently, is there?”

            Shaw shrugged.  “Guess Samaritan’s been curbing violent crime as much as they predicted.  Can’t say I’m happy about waiting for it to get around to me.”

            “Or waiting in general.”  Skye smirked.  “You seem a little antsy to me.”

            Shaw ignored her.  “So SHIELD wasn’t dismantled.”  She directed her question to May.  “Should have figured.”

            “No, it was dismantled thoroughly enough.”  May tilted her head.  “There was just some disagreement on that point.  Hydra definitely wasn’t dismantled, it seemed like a pretty stupid decision to incapacitate the one organization responsible for fighting it.”

            “Considering what a great job you did on taking it down.”  Shaw smirked.

            May smiled but did not rise to the comment.  “Your old old work.  Northern Lights.”  She said, changing the subject.  “How did you like eliminating threats?”

            Shaw shrugged dismissively.  “Didn’t love it.  Didn’t hate it.  Was good at it, and I wasn’t pissing as many people off.  So there was that.”

            “You pissed off LESS people when you were an international spy killing terrorists.”  Skye frowned.  “What kind of doctor were you?”

            “We’re restarting the Northern Lights program.”  May explained.  “We’ve been given access to the Machine by your friend Root.”

            “That lady is NOT my friend.”  Shaw rolled her eyes.  “Also,” she continued, digging her spoon into Skye’s milkshake, “what’s the point of Northern Lights now?  Decima and Samaritan handle threats to the US now.  They’re slimeballs, but they know better than to sabotage their meal ticket.”

            “We’re looking to expand its role.”  May answered.  “SHIELD was never about America’s security.  It was about global security.”

            “Whatever the hell that means,” snorted Shaw, swallowing the ice cream.  “You going to stop nations going to war with each other?”

            “Most threats don’t come from one nation against another,” answered May.  “Most of them come from multinational extremists or anarchists. Single people.  America’s not the only country that suffers from terrorist threats.”

            “Yeah.”  Skye put in.  “They just have the coolest toys to handle them.  Well...”  A smirk.  “Had.”

            “Northern Lights is to be expanded to a multinational program.”  May explained.  “Multiple operatives in foreign countries, eliminating multiple threats to innocent civilians regardless of area or nationality.”

            A slow smile crept over Shaw’s face. “Aren’t you all a group of goddamned boy-scouts.”

            “This isn’t all us, okay?”  Skye protested.  “Root said the Machine’s been wanting to do it for a while, it just didn’t have the assets to do so before.  Working with SHIELD just gives it a wider focus, that’s all.”

            “And we’re not completely altruistic in this.”  May gave a cold smile.  “The primary threat right now to global security is coming from Hydra.”

            Shaw grinned and dug another spoonful out of Skye’s milkshake.  “So.”  She swallowed.  “You need someone who used to be in the program.”

            “To help us set it up the way it used to be, yes.”

            “This multinational anti-terrorist task-force.”  Shaw spun her spoon idly in the air.  “You’re going to set this up using... what, a single team of agents, no funding, no bases, no governmental influence or input, and a computer surveillance system that only gives you the numbers and leaves the rest up to you?”

            “We have three of the best information brokers in the world working for us to supplement the Machine’s... hints.”  May answered.

            “One of which has connections to a wide network of hackers with liberal views on government secrets.”  Skye smirked.

            “SHIELD has plenty of unregistered equipment stashes and safehouses that Hydra hasn’t compromised.”  May continued.  “Your previous employer has already volunteered us some of his own resources, and we’re looking into other private investors.  As far as personnel goes...”  A small twist to her mouth.  “We’re in the midst of what you might call a recruitment drive.”

            “Plenty of SHIELD agents like us around the globe.”  Skye shrugged.

            “Plenty more ex-agents like you around the globe.”  May added.  “Or people who might be agents, but just need the proper training.  Training like the sort you can provide.”

            Shaw considered it.  “I don’t know.”

            “You’ve got better things to do?”  Skye raised her eyebrows.  “Like medical accounting?”

            Shaw huffed and leaned back in her seat.  “I mean, I don’t know how I feel about training newbies.  I’m not what you’d call a people person.”

            “Shockingly few of the agents I’ve met are.”  Skye snorted.

            “Plus...”  Shaw shrugged. “...slow business or not, I’m not... quite ready to give up on Finch.  I owe those Decima chumps a few rounds.”

            “It’d be a temporary assignment.”  May stood, “Just until we got the program running.  Perhaps later we could discuss opening a SHIELD cell here in New York, but...”  She shrugged.  “That’s something best left until we have a better idea of our resources.  For the moment, here’s this.”  She laid a cell phone on the table.  “Untraceable, and secure. Our number is in the contacts.  Call us after you’ve made a decision.”

            Skye stood also. “Welcome to SHIELD, Agent Shaw!”

            May gave the tiniest eye roll.

            Jen leaned in as the two walked off.  “Skye’s new to SHIELD.”  She whispered.  “Just became an official agent a few months ago.  That’s why she’s so gung-ho about everything.”

            “Was wondering about that.”  Shaw picked up the phone.

            “You going to take the job?”  Jen asked.

            “Maybe.  Maybe not,” shrugged Shaw, pocketing the phone.  “Apparently Finch and psycho-girl are on board, but it might still be fun.  Better than number-crunching.  Might get to actually shoot some folks for a change.”  Rising, she fixed Jen with a look.  “In the meantime, you and I need to work out a system for when you’re in danger or when you want me to stay away.”

            “Already worked one out.”  Jen nodded, hopping up to join her.  “There’s a window in a west tower room that no one uses.  I can hang  a scarf there.  Red means come help, blue means stay away, green means someone forced me to give them the signal.”

            “Sounds good.  Point this tower out to me.”

            “Okay.”  As they walked off, Jen looked up at her.  “Do you think they’re going to visit John next?” 

            A smile curved Shaw’s mouth.  “Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see that.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I was writing this prior to season 4, so I didn't know that Root was going to be working at a boutique. Hilarious as the boutique cover is, it does seem like a bad idea to put Shaw in a position she actively hates. I went for something suitably boring yet fitting with her prior work as a doctor.
> 
> This was where the story started to open up a bit more. I began to see that there were world-sweeping applications to the Machine working with an international force.


	4. Concerned Third Parties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New York fixer Zoe Morgan goes with her new driver to meet up with someone who says he needs help. But what he's talking about is a whole another world.

“It’s not that I mind having you all to myself.”  said Zoe Morgan.  “I’m just wondering if you find life as my driver to be a little less high-octane than your usual employment.”

            Reese shrugged lightly.  “It’s not as exciting, I’ll grant you.  But there are... other compensations.”

            “Down, boy.”  Zoe admonished.  “There’s a long night ahead of us.  I’ve got a meeting with a new player in town.  I don’t know much about him so... keep that Walther of yours handy, will you?”

            “Always do.”  Reese nodded, turning the car into a side alley.  “Where are you meeting him?”

            “Drive slow down Oakley.  There should be a man  near the fifth lamppost wearing a french beret,” directed Zoe.  “Stop and let him in.  After that, circle the block while we talk business.  Let him out at the same point.”

            “Sounds mysterious.”

            “It’s definitely a bit more... involved than most of my clients.”  Zoe grumbled.  “But it’s not a first.  So long as I have a discreet driver, there’s no danger in it.”

            Reese’s brow knitted in thought.  “Discreet I can do.  But I don’t see how my Walther is going to be much help if he’s in the back seat with you and I’m driving up front.”

            “Brake really suddenly.  Scumbags like that always forget their seatbelt,”   answered Zoe, tossing her hair.  “Again, not a first.  Anything else, I still have that taser.”

            Reese’s mouth curved ever so slightly.  “Now I almost want to see this guy try something.”

            “You would.”  Zoe’s mouth curved in response.  “You’re a violent man, John Reese.  You’d never be able to keep up a peaceful life.”

            “Look who’s talking.”  Reese suddenly cocked his head up and to the right a bit.  “That’s the fifth lamppost, but I don’t see... Ah...”  At the approach of the car, a jacketed figure had stepped into the light, almost nonchalantly.  Reese slowed the car to a stop, and the figure opened up the door to step inside.

            “My driver nearly passed you by, Mr. Tripp.”  Zoe observed, as the dark-skinned man settled himself in the seat.  “I thought you said you would be waiting at the lamppost.”

            Mr. Tripp gave an easy smile.  He was a pleasant, dark-skinned man with close-cropped black hair and muttonchops, wearing a leather jacket.  “Bright light gives me a headache, Ms. Morgan.”

            “And makes you visible from the street, while ruining your eyesight so you can’t see anyone in the dark.”  Zoe smiled thinly.  “I’m not an idiot, Mr. Tripp.”

            “Didn’t mean to imply you were, ma’am.”  Tripp held up his hands.  “But stating it like that makes it seem as though I don’t trust you.”

            Zoe raised her eyebrows.  “And do you trust me?

            Tripp met her gaze evenly.  “Yes ma’am, I do.”

            A sad smirk crossed Zoe’s lips.  “Then you’re not going to last long in this business.”

            “A trusted source told me to trust you.”  Tripp shrugged.  “At some point somewhere along the line, you have to rely on someone.”

            “And that gun in your jacket?”

            Again Tripp smiled.  “Makes me feel better.  A security blanket.”

            Zoe shook her head, but there was a light tilt to her lips.  “All right.  Now what is the problem?”

            Tripp sighed and leaned back in the car seat.  “The world, ma’am.  The world.”

            The smile became a bit more puzzled.  “Philosophical, aren’t we?  Whatever your ‘trusted source’ told you, I’m afraid my scope ends outside New York.”

            “Oh, I think your reach extends further than that, Ms. Morgan.”  Tripp grinned.  “New York is its own collection of nations.  The whole world passes through New York, and things that happen here are felt all throughout the globe.”

            Zoe frowned.  “I’m as much a New Yorker as anyone, but I think you’re rather exaggerating the situation.”

            “Am I?”  Tripp cocked an eyebrow.  “Wasn’t it just recently you had an alien invasion here?”

            That made Zoe pause.  “Well... yes.  But last I checked, London had one of those too.”

            “Fair enough.”  The man chuckled.  “But it began in New York, just as the War on Terror began in New York.  Things... tend to happen here, Ms. Morgan.  Wasn’t Samaritan deployed in New York before being released to the world?”

            Reese was suddenly listening to the conversation VERY closely.

            Zoe didn’t miss a beat.  “I’m sorry, I ‘m not sure... Samaritan?”

            “Samaritan.  You know?  Big security system, watches us 24-7, keeps life in America safe for all except for the few whose life it keeps interesting?”  Tripp smiled.  “Like your driver, for instance.”

            Reese slammed on the brakes.  Tripp tumbled to the floor, but he rolled with the movement, letting the momentum carry him around to press a gun into the back of Reese’s seat. 

            “Don’t.”  The metal prongs of a taser touched the back of Tripp’s neck.  “Not exactly polite, Mr. Tripp, to schedule an appointment with a lady when you’re only interested in her driver.”

            “Momma always said I had bad manners.”  Trip’s smile was still evident.

            Reese, half twisted in his seat with a gun pointed at the back seat, was less jovial.  “Who are you, and how do you know about Samaritan?  Or me?”

            “Nice as this floor is, I’d prefer to do my explaining while sitting up.”  Tripp answered.  “And without a taser on my neck.”

            “I’d prefer you to talk without a gun to my driver’s back.”  Zoe raised an eyebrow.

            “Mm, I can respect that.”  Slowly, Tripp raised his gun from the seat back, then dropped it.  “We cool?  Can I sit up now?”

            Zoe leaned over and picked up the gun, then sat back and pocketed her taser.  “Very well.”

            Tripp got up from the floor and sat back in the seat.  He eyed the gun Reese still had pointed at him.  “Shouldn’t you keep driving?”

            “Given that apparently you’re talking to me, seems I might as well look you in the eye while you’re doing it.”  Reese indicated, not moving.

            “I’m... not exactly a New York native,” said Tripp, “but it seems if we stay stopped in the middle of the street for much longer, we’re going to meet with either a cop or an accident.  Perhaps you know a good place to park?”

            Zoe rolled her eyes.  “There’s a structure over on Eighth, John.”

            “Fine.”  John pocketed his gun and turned around.  “But you’d better have some answers ready when we get there.”

 

* * *

 

 

            “SHIELD.”  Reese repeated.

            “Strategic Homeland Intervention and Espionage Logistics Division.”  Tripp nodded.  “Not to be confused with Hydra, the super-secret Nazi science division worshiping a faceless guy with a severe case of eczema.”

            “Who?”  Reese’s face wrinkled.

            “The Red Skull.”  Zoe still had Tripp’s gun trained on him.  “Honestly, John, didn’t you learn history?”

            “We’re not evil, is what I’m saying.”  Tripp insisted.  “We weren’t part of Hydra, and we still believe in what everyone thought SHIELD stood for.  Keeping the world safe.”

            “That’s sweet, but technically that’s what Hydra says they stand for too.”  Zoe smiled.

            “And Decima.”  Reese interjected.

            Tripp grinned.  “And your Machine.  There are different interpretations of what that means, I grant you, but that’s why we’re rebuilding it from the ground up.  We want to do it right this time.”

            “And that means what?”

            A shrug from Tripp.  “Work in progress.”

            “You say you’ve been working with Finch and Shaw.”  Reese questioned.  “If you were so eager to for me to trust you, why not send one of them?”

            “Honestly, man, I asked my boss the same question.”  Tripp answered.  “Got something to do with Samaritan... apparently bringing two of you primary-target people together, fake identities or not, is bound to attract Samaritan’s attention.  Plus, Operative Shaw is overseas at the moment, and Finch...”  Tripp shrugged. “...you know what he’s like.”

            “So what do you want me for, and why should I care?”  Reese arched his eyebrows.

            “The fact you’re asking means you care already.”  Tripp gave a little smirk.  “And it’s not just you I came to see.  I’m also here to talk to Ms. Morgan.”

            “Thanks,” Zoe drawled. “I was starting to feel neglected.”

            “Here’s the situation.”  Tripp leaned forward earnestly in his seat.  “What I was talking before... it’s true.  New York attracts the crazy, more than ever since the invasion, when all sorts of alien debris got littered all over its streets.  Already you’re starting to see signs... super-powered bank robbers, strange urban rumors, curiously ‘gifted’ people.”

            “What are you talking about?”  Reese narrowed his eyes.    

            Tripp nodded to Zoe, who had fallen curiously silent.  “She knows.”

            In response to Reese’s questioning gaze, Zoe tilted her head. “Over... the last year or so.”  She admitted.  “It’s been... there’ve been incidents... they seemed isolated at first, but there’ve been gradually more of them.  Powerful, influential people wanting ‘incidents’ covered up where someone did something... unusual.”

            Reese blinked.  “Zoe, that’s 90% of what you do.”

            “These were different.”  Zoe shook her head.  “The stories were crazy, wild... someone who shot lasers from their eyes, or walked straight through a brick wall or...”  Zoe shrugged.  “You remember the guy last month who wanted some news about his son covered up?”

            “Yeah...”  Reese nodded.  “Washington, or Warton, or...”

            “Worthington.”  Tripp answered.  “Story about his son sprouting wings, wasn’t it?”

            Zoe’s eyes narrowed.  “I buried that story, and discredited anyone willing to testify to it.”

            “Let’s say we’re more credible than most people about these things.”  Tripp smiled.  “Also we’re working with a massive surveillance computer and three people VERY good at digging up buried secrets.”

            “You’re saying these are part of a larger trend?”  Zoe asked, brow knitted.

            “Hey, I’m just the grunt soldier.”  Tripp spread his hands wide.  “But a lot of folks smarter than I are pretty sure the world’s about to go through some sort of developmental phase, and that’s never pleasant for anyone.”

            “So you want me to sign up with SHIELD to help you deal with these ‘gifted’ people?”  Reese looked very skeptical.

            “Someone really hasn’t been listening to me.” mused Tripp.  “No, I’m saying you—and Ms. Morgan here—are going to increasingly find yourselves in situations beyond what you can handle.”

            “Like what?”

            Tripp shrugged.  “Hell if I know.  Mole men, invisible girls, giant ugly human arachnids; look, if I knew what the situations were, I wouldn’t be meeting with you.  The point is, we don’t want you to do anything for us.  What we want you to do is let us know when we can help you out.  With... you know.” Tripp gestured vaguely.  “Mad scientist octopi or what-not.”

            “Watched a lot of B-movies as a kid, didn’t you.”  Reese deadpanned.

            “I can’t help but realize that this keeps you from needing to establish a SHIELD cell here in New York.”  Zoe interjected.  “That essentially, you’re relying on us to keep an eye on the city and tell you where these ‘gifted’ people or these strange incidents are.”

            “No,” grinned Tripp.  “We’re relying on you to take care of most of these gifted people and bizarre incidents on your own, because taking care of things is what you do.”

            Zoe snorted.  “If someone pays me, sure.  Boy scout over here is the one who does it for free.”

            “Don’t sell yourself short, miss.”  Tripp was still grinning.  “Look, if you want to consider yourselves part of a SHIELD surveillance cell that monitors New York and contains minor incidents, I’m sure the boss would have no problem with that.  But if that idea bothers you, just think of us as the panic number to dial when things get weird.”  He withdrew two cell phones and laid them on the seat.  “Secure and untraceable.  Keep us in the loop, and we’ll keep you in the loop.” Tripp turned to Zoe.  “Can I have my gun back?”

            Zoe ejected the magazine and ratcheted the single round out of the gun’s chamber.  “There you are.”  She said, handing it to him.

            “Been a real pleasure, Ms. Morgan.”  Tripp smiled.  He nodded to Reese.  “Mr. Reese.”  He opened the door, and was gone.

            For a moment Zoe and Reese sat in silence.

            Finally Zoe breathed a sigh and picked up the phone. 

            “You’re not taking him up on that, are you?”  Reese eyed her askance.

            “Traded favors with a lot of people, but an ex-government agency is a new one.”  Zoe answered, pocketing the device.  “Could be useful to have in a pinch."

            "And you think he's right about... that trend?"  Reese eyed the fixer contemplatively.  "You think things are going to get even weirder?"

            For a moment, Zoe's unbreakable front crumpled  and she looked horribly weary.  "I hope not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually not a huge fan of how the show has handled Zoe/Reese, but their first episode together was amazing. It's just everything since then that seems so dry. John being a detective is actually a better idea than what I have here, but I still like this idea.
> 
> These are scattered Marvel references, by the way. Tripp's speech is a somewhat ironic commentary on the fact that nearly ALL the action in the Marvel comics happens in New York, for some reason.


	5. Additional Parties

            “I don’t see why I have to be a part of this nonsense.”  Root stared out the window of the airplane, uncharacteristically disgruntled.  “It seems to me to be a whole lot of fuss about nothing.”

            “We’ve been over this.”  Coulson walked in from the front of the Bus.  “Malta is the perfect place to establish a base camp, for the same reason Quinn used it back in the day—no extradition treaty.  Even if the CIA or Interpol find us, they won’t be able to touch us.  Legally, anyway.”  He dropped into the seat across from there.  “We set up a ‘vacation house’ in the area; we spend a few months establishing the false identity of the Italian Don who owns it and oozing our way into Prince Pedro’s confidence, and we have a ready-made base-camp/safe-house established, in a way that allows us to tap into the criminal underworld and still explain rapid mysterious trips to and from the base.”  He shrugged.  “It’s the perfect cover.”

            “I think you misunderstood me.”  Root turned her exasperated expression to the Director.  “I don’t see why _I_ have to be part of this.”

            A grin quirked the sides of Coulson’s mouth.  “Well, that would be the decision of your Machine, now, wouldn’t it?”

            Root let her head fall back onto the seat with a little huff.  “I’ve never doubted her before, but if she’s developing some ill-timed sense of humor...”  She muttered.

            Coulson was still grinning.  “You’re mad about being included on a mission where the solitary goal is to have fun and live like wealthy Italian gangsters.”  He shrugged.  Look at it as... getting some political clout overseas to match Samaritan’s stranglehold on the US.”

            “And I’m needed for that because...”

            “Ask your Machine.  But at the very least, you could be a good friend to Jillian.”  Coulson nodded at the dark-headed girl sitting nervously in the lounge on the Bus.  “She’s done some routine surveillance work—we had her stationed at a cafe near Stark Tower—but she’s a level 1 and this is the first real field deployment she’s had.”

            Root glanced briefly at the girl and rolled her eyes.  “I’ve never really been much of a ‘people person.’”  She informed Coulson. 

            “...That makes sense, actually.”  Coulson nodded, studying the stitches around the woman’s eye and ear.  “Still, she’s supposed to be your cousin, so it would make things easier if you could act like it.”

            “Oh, I can _pretend_ to like people.”  Root waved dismissively.  “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

            “That’s... good. That’s a start,” sighed Coulson, giving a tight smile.  “Start by pretending to like people, and then maybe move to pretending to have fun, and...”

            “...and if you pretend long enough, you might have some by accident?”  Root smirked.    

            Coulson shrugged.  “You never know.”

            “We don’t have time to have fun.  We don’t have time to even pretend to have fun.”  Root nearly hissed.  “You’ve sworn fealty to a god, I hope you realize what that means.”

            “I... didn’t.”  Coulson’s brow was severely furrowed, and he was staring at Root quizzically.  “I mean, not only did I not realize what it means, I’m... pretty sure I never swore anything.”

            “We are in the midst of a war of gods.”  Root answered, eyes glittering.  “Time is everything.  Samaritan thinks at nearly 10 times the speed of the Machine and has more than fifty times the manpower.”  She gave a thin smile.  “So forgive me, ‘Director Coulson,’ if I seem a little impatient.”

            After a few moments, Coulson gave another, more understanding, smile.  Leaning forward, he gestured to her. 

            “Now, we’ve already eliminated ten different names off the list of numbers you gave us at the start of this arrangement.”  He said, in an undertone.  “Four of those were associated with Decima.  After he drops us off, Tripp’s off to Budapest to handle one.  May and your friend Shaw are in Hong Kong with a few other SHIELD agents, taking care of another.” 

“But that second set of numbers you gave us?”  Coulson shook his head in admiration.  “Skye’s been working around the clock to compile complete profiles.  Ex-agents from SHIELD, the CIA, the KGB, even Mossad.  Various people with unique skills and checkered pasts that might be open to working for a down-on-its-luck secret agency.  Some of them, neither I nor Skye can quite see why the Machine picked them, but we can’t wait to find out.”

“So yeah,”  Coulson shrugged.  “We’re outnumbered for now.  But this recruitment drive?  It’s just getting started.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points to whoever can tell me what other Whedon property is being referenced here and who "Jilian" is.
> 
> This is the end of this particular crossover, but stay tuned for more in the "Recruitment Drive" series!

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first story in a long series that I posted up on fanfiction. It was started just after the season 1 finale of Agents of SHIELD (and the season 3 finale of PoI), and I'm still finishing it up now, so that gives you an idea of how big the series is. It's supposed to take place between seasons 1 and 2 of Agents of SHIELD, and between 3 and 4 of PoI. (and other fandoms which we'll get into later. 
> 
> This story largely sprung from watching both finales in such close tandem, and realizing how well they fit together--both groups were on the run from the government, and both were in desperate need of resources. The only hobble was Audrey and Root, which I never really handled.
> 
> Hopefully I'll get around to posting the rest of the series on here. It basically follows Coulson recruiting characters from all sorts of TV shows and franchises.


End file.
